


Sympathy, Tenderness, His Work and Nothing More

by Tilion



Category: Jekyll & Hyde - Wildhorn/Wildhorn & Bricusse & Cuden/Bricusse, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Unrequited Crush, WELL ACCORDING TO AO3 HE'S NOT FAR OFF, gay mad scientists, no beta we die like men, or is it???, utterson thinks jekyll and hyde are lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilion/pseuds/Tilion
Summary: Gabriel Utterson goes to confront his friend about his suspicions concerning him and a certain Mr. Hyde.The results are . . . not what he expects, to say the least.
Relationships: Edward Hyde/Gabriel John Utterson, Henry Jekyll/Gabriel John Utterson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	Sympathy, Tenderness, His Work and Nothing More

**Author's Note:**

> While the title is from the musical, this is book-canon-typical in regards to plot (and Emma and Lucy, much as I adore them). Thus "Gabriel" rather than "John"  
> ALSO!! TW for vague allusion to rape in the "A thought glanced through his mind" paragraph, it is not graphic but I thought it's best to make sure!

More often than not, Gabriel Utterson found himself perceived in such a way that was not entirely true to his character: as a lawyer he was respected, and as a man often seen as more statue than human being. His smiles were far and few between, with a rarity matched only by those of one Dr. Henry Jekyll—although, admittedly, if Henry had been smiling often lately, Gabriel wouldn't know.

Truthfully, though, he kept the expression of his joy close to his chest, alongside his cards. Few received the warmth of his smiles, not because only they deserved the comfort of it, but because it was what his own comfort allowed.

Henry Jekyll was one of those few.

Or he would be, if the man would _talk to him_.

Faint trickles of streetlight filtered through the window as Gabriel leaned over his desk. A glass of gin dangled from his fingers; his one vice, as he liked to say, or perhaps one of two, alongside a rapidly growing frustration one might have called— ( ~~jealousy~~.)

He sighed and set the glass on his desk, not bothering to sweep aside the papers that lay beneath: they did not belong to the firm, but were his own personal notes, jotted down with clear increasing frustration, and all on the subject of Jekyll. His friend's most peculiar behavior had been the cause of a budding concern for some time now, and he decided now that he must assign the matter specific attention.

Gabriel used the tip of his quill to itch his nose and sighed. He cast a glancing look over the top sheet of his notes, which were unprofessional and unrevised:

_\- Isolating himself for reasons unknown, unsure of his sleep schedule (?)_

_\- Illness? — unproven_

_\- Mr. Edward Hyde? (possible blackmail, connection? long-lost relative?)_

_\- Is Henry in danger?_

The last underlined note caught his eye, and he drew an absentminded finger beneath it, careful not to smudge the too-fresh ink. Surely Henry knew he could come to him were he in any trouble, legal or otherwise, both as a lawyer and as a friend—what, then, could initiate such utter insistence for Gabriel to leave him alone?

What, were their positions switched, might cause such behavior in _Gabriel_?

A realization hovered at the edge of his mind; reluctant to consider it, but even more reluctant to dismiss a potential lead, Gabriel turned over the idea in his mind. Were he Henry, and Henry him, the only thing of note he would bother to conceal with such fervor was his inclination toward the rougher sex, and toward one man in particular—

Gabriel stood with abruptness, and began to pace the length of his room, dragging one hand through his hair in a manner that did more to tangle than to comb it. His feelings for Henry, twisted and hot and taken out to over-analyze more times than strictly healthy, were not relevant here, and he would _not_ spend any time agonizing over them. 

But could Henry's secret mirror his? No, surely not in its entirety; Henry was a man ever detached, even from his dearest of friends, and had no lovers other than his work. Still—

The image of Hyde sprang into his mind, or at least the image described to him: a pale younger man, with reddish hair and a sneer affixed on his lips, and something most unnerving about his countenance; Gabriel had no idea what this entailed, and so pictured the man as oddly angled in his movements and limbs, as though utterly inhuman.

Henry was somehow . . . entangled with Hyde, and refused to speak of him, at least to Gabriel; could this entanglement be of the _romantic_ nature?

Gabriel hesitated, then strode back to the desk and knocked back the rest of his gin. It sickened him to imagine it, but as he wiped his mouth with a careless hand, the images drifted unbidden through his thoughts: Henry, ~~his~~ Henry in the embrace of this mystery man, his spectacles askew as he laughed brightly in response to some secret words passed between the two; Henry's face cupped by long pale fingers, Henry's mouth—

He slammed the glass back onto his desk with more force than necessary and stared, with an intensity foreign even to himself, at the ring of water left on the paper. It crept with agonizing slowness outwards, as the rays of a dying sun, and he felt his heart creep with it, unsure, unsteady, untethered to himself.

He must investigate further, he thought, with a sharp turn to pace once more across the room; it was, first and foremost, for Henry. Yes, to ensure Henry's safety, no matter the cost.

A thought glanced through his mind, and he stilled, with mingled horror and fury: might Hyde be _forcing_ himself on Henry, and his friend assuring his own wellness out of some ill-conceived shame, or fear of retribution?

That settled it, then, thought Gabriel with uncharacteristic coldness; his fingers curled themselves into fists unbidden. He must go see Henry and ensure for himself that the doctor was unharmed.

He did not bother to request an invitation, knowing that Henry, in his current worrying state, would decline, but scribbled a brief letter:

_My dear Jekyll— (_ for that was how the man preferred to be called, no matter how familiarly Gabriel thought of him)

_I would very much like to speak to you. I hope it is not too rude of me to say that I must see you whether or not you like it. If you do not respond with a better time or place, I will visit you at 7:00 sharp tonight._

_With love,_

_Gabriel Utterson_

He stared at the sign-off for a long, long time, before crumpling up the paper and tossing it over his shoulder. He copied the letter onto a fresh sheet of paper, and replaced the _love_ with a simple, if nauseatingly formal, _regards—_ no, no, that was too detached, too unfamiliar. 

Gabriel rubbed at his eyes, then swore softly to himself as he remembered the faint smudges of ink on his hands. 

_Your friend,_ he tried, then hissed in irritation—it was true enough, but twisted at his heart in its harsh reminder that all he could ever be to Jekyll was precisely that.

Once more, he copied his note, this time taking care to ensure the script was neat and the grammar immaculate. At the bottom of the paper, he wrote _Yours, Gabriel,_ and contemplated leaving it at that, before giving in and adding his surname. Perhaps no one else would write such a note to Henry, but simply leaving his given name had . . . implications. 

"For heaven's sake, Utterson," he murmured to himself, sharply. "You are making this far more complicated than it needs to be."

And it was perhaps the truest thought he'd had all night.

***

Having given his letter directly to Poole that morning, and departed with an anxious glance at the lonely upper window of Henry's home, Gabriel spent the next day in a peculiarly detached state of empty anticipation. He had not worked himself into such a state of anxiety since his university days; his reputation existed as that of a calm, controlled man, almost entirely unruffled by commonplace irritants, and perhaps to a degree he considered such a reputation cemented in truth; however, Henry Jekyll had always inhabited a particular niche of his brain which hovered on the edge between stability and its certain opposite.

Some time before strictly necessary, Gabriel found himself standing before his mirror in intent deliberation. He needn't dress himself up for Henry, he told himself, but because this visit was for _Henry's_ good, it was best to present himself as neatly and unproblematic as possible, so as to throw off any suspicions in regards to his own state. Yes, that was it—not a deception so much as a benevolent misdirection. 

For it was, in fact, a misdirection. Gabriel Utterson was, although far from Henry's isolated melancholy . . . not at his best.

He adjusted his tie, an old striped one from his university days that Henry had once complimented (a coincidence, of course), and smoothed a hand over his suit. Really, there was no need for him to fret about his appearance, he reminded himself. It was only Henry. 

Still, as it was, he glanced back to check that his hair was not too out of order before he strode out the door. Perhaps Henry could get away with not combing his hair for thirty years, but he himself decidedly could not.

When he arrived at Henry's, he was once again struck by the air of neglect, as though the house itself was slowly fading, in its vibrance and vitality. It saddened him to see, but he composed himself as he rang the doorbell.

Poole answered, with a slight nod of greeting. "Mr. Utterson," he said, "Dr. Jekyll is expecting you, although I'm afraid he is not in the best of moods."

"He will see me, then?" asked Gabriel in mild surprise.

"I think he has accepted that he has little choice in the matter," the butler replied with some wryness, opening the door. "I hope you will forgive his lack of courtesy, sir."

"Of course," Gabriel assured him as they neared the laboratory. He had attempted to contact his friend many times, and had received little response in recent times. In fact, quite some time had passed since they held a proper conversation, and he shoved down the hurt that welled in his chest at the thought.

"Jekyll!" he called, with a light knock on the laboratory door. "Henry Jekyll, I know you are there."

A soft shuffling from behind the door, and then a voice that was, in fact, distinctly Henry replied, "Mr. Utterson, that is you?"

"Who else would it be?" he called. "And I have told you many times to call me Gabriel."

To his surprise, the door swung open to reveal a pale and gaunt Henry, his shirt rumpled and his hair as mussed as ever. There were gray shadows hung beneath his eyes, as though his lack of sleep had collected there like rain. His spectacles sat crooked on his nose, and the freckles beneath stood out against the unnatural paleness of his skin.

Despite it all, something deep within Gabriel forced him to avert his gaze for a moment, lest his face reveal his thoughts: Henry, no matter how exhausted and emaciated he seemed, was still _gorgeous_.

"Utterson, really, I have told you—" Henry began, with the air of one whose patience has greatly thinned, but Gabriel interrupted him.

"My dear friend, I'm afraid I really must speak to you. This goes beyond concern for a client; as one of your oldest friends, I am obliged and _willing_ to investigate whatever ails you."

"Investigate if you must," said Henry, although his tone suggested he would rather he didn't, "but I assure you, there is nothing you can do to help."

Gabriel lifted his brows, unconvinced. "We shall see."

Henry eyed him for a moment, then sighed, and gestured into his laboratory. "You may as well come in, then, if I can't get rid of you."

"You never will," he returned, with perhaps too much fondness threaded in the words, and received a noncommittal grunt in response. 

Henry gestured for him to take a seat in the only chair unoccupied by glassware, papers, or instruments of various purposes, while he himself cleared off a small spot on his desk and leaned against it. For a charged moment, the two men regarded one another, each unwilling to speak first, until at last Gabriel cleared his throat and forced himself to meet Henry's gaze.

"Well, there is no reason to skirt around the matter at hand," he sighed. "I'm sure you know what I want to talk about."

"I assure you that I do not," said Henry stiffly.

Unconvinced, Gabriel narrowed his eyes, but at his friend's determined silence he was forced to admit, "Mr. Edward Hyde."

As before, the mention of the name caused Henry to stiffen, almost imperceptibly; much more noticeable was the slight tremor to his voice as he said, "I have told you, Mr. Utterson, there is no need for you to do _anything_ concerning Mr. Hyde."

"And I have told _you_ ," he returned, "to call me Gabriel. Really, we've known each other for more than thirty years, my dear."

Something flickered behind his eyes, whether at the endearment or what preceded it, and Gabriel cast about in his mind for something else to say. "I am _worried_ about you, Henry," he said, entirely truthfully. 

"I am perfectly fine," Henry insisted. 

He eyed the chemist for a moment, allowing his gaze to noticeably linger on the sleepless bruises beneath his eyes, and then turned his head to the rest of the laboratory, which was in a state of disarray. 

Color stained Henry's cheeks, the sight enough for Gabriel himself to feel heat rise to his own face. "All right, I'm not _perfectly_ fine," he admitted, "but it's nothing you need to worry about."

"All evidence to the contrary. If you are in danger, I am one of the people best equipped to get you out of it."

"I'm in no danger."

"Then I don't see why you cannot disclose to me your relationship with Mr. Hyde," he answered simply.

Henry looked away, and the last vestiges of his previous blush faded in favor of a new, more delicate pink that rose to his cheeks. "It's . . . complex."

_Complex,_ thought Gabriel bitterly, and lifted his chin with the silent promise _not_ to involve his own feelings in this matter. This was, after all, about Henry. "Then tell me this," he said, as he leaned forward to brace his arms on his knees. "Is he threatening you?"

"No!" Henry exclaimed, "no, of course not."

"Is he blackmailing you?"

"No."

"And he is not . . ." Gabriel hesitated, unsure of how to express the suspicion that Hyde could be an illegitimate child of his friend's. ". . . _related_ to you?"

Henry hesitated. "We are not family, no."

"Then for God's sake, Henry!" Gabriel exclaimed, rising sharply from his seat; Henry echoed his movement, with an expression of increasing worry, as he threw his hands in the air in complete abandonment of his control. "What _is_ he to you?"

Standing before his desk, his thin hands clasped together, Henry looked more the image of pity than he ever had before. "It is not something you would understand," he said, miserably.

Of course he would not think Gabriel capable of understanding an attraction to men; he had, after all, taken such pains to conceal his attraction toward Jekyll _himself!_ He shook his head, exasperated in equal parts by Henry's actions and his own, and said sharply, "I think I do understand a great deal more than you think!"

"I don't think that is possible," Henry snapped, or as close to snapping as the old doctor could possibly reach. "We are—"

"Lovers!" Gabriel cried, throwing both cautions and his hands to the winds. "Yes, yes, I know, you are secret lovers!"

Henry gaped at him in unconcealed shock, his eyes wide. "Utterson—"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," he added, with perhaps too much more bitterness than intended, "I won't tell anyone. But really, Henry, why wouldn't you tell me such a thing? Surely you know that I—"

" _Gabriel_ ," Henry interrupted in a firm tone of voice, and the shock of his first name on those lips, an occurrence so rare as to have spurred several wishful dream sequences in the past, caused him to fall silent. "Hyde is not my lover."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his mind awhirl; if Henry and Hyde were not lovers, then what on earth were they? And—dear God—far from having made a fool of himself, Gabriel had as good as admitted his own sinful inclinations—" _I think I do understand a great deal more than you think_!"

"Then what—" he tried weakly, all his eloquence as a lawyer having vanished abruptly, or perhaps having been nonexistent since the moment he had glimpsed Henry Jekyll's face. "What—"

"I can't tell you," Henry cried, and for a moment it seemed as though they were both the schoolboys of their youth, small and unsure as the day they had met: Henry Jekyll, up-and-coming genius full to the brim with mingled arrogance and insecurity; Gabriel Utterson, his quieter but equally matched companion, both of them capable of great intelligence in all areas but for each other.

"You can," he insisted, and in a great leap of faith reached to take Henry's hands in his own. "You can trust me."

Henry gazed down at their joined hands with conflict written plain as day across his gaunt face, before gripping at Gabriel's fingers tightly and then dropping his hands. "I fear I cannot trust myself."

"What do you mean?"

"My experiments, Mr. Utterson! My experiments!" Henry strode up and down the laboratory, their moment of shared affection all but forgotten, and tore at his hair with a look of utmost frustration. "I've been a fool and an irresponsible chemist. I—but you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Show me then," said Gabriel, who was quite lost, but enraptured by the first display of information regarding Hyde at all. 

"I can't," said Henry miserably. "I _cannot_ risk getting you hurt."

"Why would I be hurt?" he asked, alarmed. "Are you—who has—"

"No, no, I am not being hurt—I have not been hurt." Henry sighed. "But I'm afraid others have."

"Who?"

A moment's pause. "Sir Danvers Carew," said Henry, eventually, "among others."

Gabriel blinked at him in utter incomprehension; guilt wracked his expression, the sort of guilt he had never thought would rest upon the face of Dr. Henry Jekyll. "Do you mean to say you had a hand in the murder of Carew?" he questioned, flabbergasted, but too shocked for repulsion.

"I'm afraid so," the other sighed, with a shake of his head. "You see, I came up with the brilliant idea that one's mind could be separated into what makes good and what makes evil." He sounded bitter now rather than proud, despite the nonchalant boast in his words. "I developed a . . . a potion of sorts, a serum, that I believed would accomplish this. On my attempts to test it on myself—"

"Jekyll!" Gabriel cried, nonplussed. "On _yourself_?"

Ignoring the outburst, Henry returned to his pacing, with a gleam now akin to panic in his eyes. "On my attempts to test it on myself," he continued, speaking faster, "I discovered that it _did_ work—to a degree. The separation took the form of a transformation both physical and mental, during which my capabilities for impulse control and morality were stripped away—"

"A transformation? What on earth are you talking about?" Gabriel exclaimed, in his growing confusion. His words sounded like the ramblings of a madman, but he knew Jekyll far too well to suspect him of such sudden madness; he knew his rushed swings between mania and melancholy, even if the recent past consisted mainly of the latter.

Henry shook his head, thoroughly distraught. "I became Edward Hyde," he said, hollowly. "I _am_ Edward Hyde."

Grappling to understand the words, Gabriel stared at him, in abject horror.

"The potion causes me to physically transform into the body of Hyde," Henry continued, wringing his hands. "Mentally, it is as though I am another person entirely, with wicked thoughts and desires. . . _my_ wicked thoughts and desires," he admitted, as though the words held a sour taste to them, "with nothing to stop them from becoming actions."

As Henry stood there with an expression of utmost misery upon his visage, Gabriel could not stop himself from staring in silence as his mind worked to comprehend. Hyde! Henry was Hyde! Henry had committed sins unspeakable, if while under the control of another! And yet the thought most strong and wicked that rose to his mind was: _Jekyll and Hyde are not lovers. There is no longer anyone of whom to be jealous._

Selfishly, even in his shock, all Gabriel could feel was a kind of perverse relief. 

"You do not believe me," Henry observed, his brow furrowed. He made to turn away, with a sad little shake of his head, and the sight was so pitiful that Gabriel's hand shot out almost without his permission to catch his arm.

"I do believe you," he promised, released him as he turned back. "I'm only . . . surprised."

A mirror of his own relief shone back at him from Henry's eyes, and he drew Gabriel into a sudden embrace, close enough that their bodies pressed together in a manner that surely would have been indecent were it not filled with such despair. "I do not deserve a friend like you, Gabriel," said Henry, the words muffled into the shoulder of his suit.

Every part of him screamed in confusion as he slowly drew his arms around his friend: _pull back_ , whispered the logical part of him, _pull back, before this breaks you heart_ ; _stay_ , the rest of him begged, _stay here, in Henry's arms, for as long as he will have you._

Gabriel would have liked to consider himself a strong-willed man, but here, with Henry's face pressed into him and the angles of his body flush against his own, he might have been the weakest man in the world.

Eventually, Henry drew him back to arm's length, but the press of his forearms against his own remained, even through the fabric of their sleeves. "I'm sorry to have burdened you with my own failures," he said. 

"It's no burden!" Gabriel was quick to assure him. "It is a relief to know that now you are no longer alone. But tell me about Hyde. Is he a separate entity, then? Does he exist only when you transform?"

"Sometimes," Henry replied. "Most of the time he is present only in the back of my mind. He can usually hear my thoughts, and I his, but he is nothing more than an observer."

"Can he hear me now?" asked Gabriel, enthralled. "What is he saying?"

A faint grimace, followed by a pink blush that crept its way up Henry's neck, and across his cheeks in a way that made Gabriel want nothing more than to pin him down and trail his lips over every inch of warmed skin. "Nothing I care to repeat," said Henry, as shakily as he was cryptic.

Gabriel stepped away before he lost control completely, and did something utterly unthinkable, such as kiss him. "Well then," he said, "Mr. Hyde, I beg of you not to torment Henry like this. It makes him very difficult to reason with."

Henry paused for a moment, as though listening, and then shook his head violently. "Be quiet!" he exclaimed, and then glanced at Gabriel in apology. "Not you."

"I thought not," said Gabriel. "This is all very strange."

"It certainly is," his companion agreed, with a faint twitch of his lips that might have been a smile. "But tell me, Utterson, what made you so convinced that we were _lovers_?"

He froze, as much out of surprise as dawning horror, and let out a slight cough. "Well," he said, "you were so very adamant that he was not harming you in any way, and that you were not family—"

"And so you came the the conclusion that I was having an affair with a young man?" Henry finished, his brows lifted.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have come to the conclusion that you were . . . " He trailed off, uncertain of how to phrase his suggestion without revealing himself: _like me? Capable, perhaps, of returning my affections?_

"A sodomite?" Henry finished, having no such qualms. 

Gabriel opened his mouth, then sputtered with a level of eloquence that was frankly rather embarrassing. "Well, I—yes, but—that was not why I was angry at the idea, I assure you, I—"

"Mr. Utterson," Henry cut him off, "really, it matters not. What makes me curious is what, exactly, _did_ make you angry at the idea."

Ah. 

_Fuck._

As a distinguished gentleman of many years, Gabriel Utterson considered himself capable enough of concealing his own emotions, capable enough certainly to make an excellent lawyer, and up until now, capable enough to entirely destroy all evidence of his attraction to his dearest friend; however, the gaze of Henry Jekyll in this particular moment had the unfortunate side effect of causing his mask to crumble entirely.

"I suppose," he admitted, unable to bring himself to either lie or stall, "I was jealous."

A slight frown passed over Henry's face—God! Dear God, he was about to be cast out, his oldest friendship destroyed, perhaps his secret even revealed to the public! "I'm afraid I don't understand," Henry said, his brow knit in confusion.

Gabriel swallowed and looked away, unable to face such humiliation with his eyes on the object of his affections, but it was now too late to back out. "Jealous of Hyde," he explained, lowly. 

"Why would you be jealous of Hyde?"

Were he not utterly certain that Henry was incapable of such cruelty, Gabriel might have thought he was drawing this out on purpose. "I did not like," he said, shortly, "to picture him as your lover."

He risked a glance at Henry, who stared at him not with revulsion, but with a continued and exasperating confusion. "Why not?"

"Because I am in love with you!" he exploded.

The words rushed from his mouth with neither permission nor approval, and he stood wide-eyed in the laboratory, hands loose at his sides, as Henry blinked rapidly, his expression unfathomable. He cursed himself and his uncharacteristically loose tongue; he might have directed the conversation away from himself, but _now_ —now, there was absolutely no chance of maintaining their relationship, and certainly no chance of—

Henry crossed the room in several long strides and clasped their hands together once more, his fingers warm against Gabriel's own. "Gabriel," he said, softly, slowly.

"Henry," he returned, and willed his voice not to shake.

His friend's thumb passed over his palm, so tender that he might have collapsed on the spot, were it not for the doctor's steadying touch. "How long?" Henry whispered, without taking his eyes from Gabriel's.

"Since university," he admitted, in a whisper.

Henry blinked once again, and at once his mouth broke into the most beautiful smile he had ever offered, warmth pooled deep in his eyes. "Oh, Gabriel," he exclaimed—"Me too."

_Me too._

"What?" said Gabriel hoarsely, but could not say anything else as his oldest and dearest friend reached up to frame his face with one hand, and ever so tenderly, as though brushing against the most fragile and precious of artworks, kissed him.

He drew back almost immediately, with a murmured apology, but Gabriel shook his head, unsure, uncertain of anything but the sure and steady beat of their hearts beneath the places where their skin brushed. He leaned in to fit their lips together again, and it felt so impossibly but intrinsically _right,_ as though the very last piece of a long-pondered puzzle had finally fallen into place.

Henry was soft beneath him, for a man he'd long thought to be all edges, soft and chapped as his lips, and their legs stumbled together toward the desk; he leaned Henry over it, their kisses turned open-mouthed and messy, as though they were indeed the youths they'd been when their feelings first blossomed, only to be left untold for far too long.

"We could have been doing this for thirty _years_ ," Henry griped, in the breath they left between kisses.

Gabriel took the opportunity to nose at his neck, at the soft space where his jaw met his throat. "And we can do it for thirty more," he promised.

All at once, Henry stiffened, and he drew back in concern. "Is everything all right."

"Yes," his friend replied, with another one of those uncharacteristic blushes that Gabriel was beginning to suspect might be entirely characteristic, after all. "It's only—Hyde is saying the most inappropriate things."

"I don't mind if you share, Dr. Jekyll," he said, and dared to smile at him, the edge of a mischievous grin he never imagined he might wear.

His lover— _lover_! he thought in something like ecstasy, what a most wonderful word, and it could not be any more wonderful than now, applied to Henry of all people—his _lover_ arched his brows again. "Is that so, Mr. Utterson?"

"Mhmm," he murmured, and kissed him again.

***

Mr. Gabriel Utterson did not return to his home that evening, and Mr. Edward Hyde, the self-proclaimed spirit of London at night, was not seen on any of his usual streets.

They were both, although it remained unknown to the rest of the city, rather occupied.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I be working on my Dorian Gray fic? Yeah. Did I write this instead?  
> . . . yeah.
> 
> (Btw, my gabriel is based entirely off his description on page 1 of the book. stoic but friendly gin lawyer man. Where's Lanyon? Fuck if I know, sorry fellas)
> 
> Comments bring life to my cold dead heart <3


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